81st of Ymiden 720
Rabble had gathered outside the gates of the fortress. Unwashed heaps of… well the Heaps had begun chanting various slogans and calls for responsibility from the nobility, which had taken to divvying up and reclaiming the baronies that’d been overrun by the Creep. They looked to solidifying their own powerbases and egos before treating the hurts of their own people. Their ire was understandable in a way, but the methods through which they made that ire known was entirely unacceptable.
The Commander of the garrison was up front, with the rest of his dragoons, trying to cordon off a portion of that massive throng, wincing as they hoisted effigies and signs proclaiming the coming of Immortals, and begging blasphemy against the Wounded God. Immortals such as Vri, Moseke, Ymiden, and even some more obscure like Saoire were being proclaimed as potential saviors to the people. They called for the overthrow of the King, and uplifting of the beloved Queen who at least had the power of magic to combat Quacia's great problems. Their rebellion would not grow, the authorities had decided, there would not be another Heaps Rebellion.
It wouldn’t stand.
The King’s Court required a hand of justice and punishment for these rowdy throngs, to douse the flames of their rebellious spirit before it turned into a tinderbox over a cache of black powder. Unto this, Woe had been summoned by a dragoon commander. Having proved himself in the battle against the Creep, or at the very least showing himself to be one of Quacia’s up and coming heroic figures and a torturer into the bargain, he was a shoe in to reign in the unruly mob.
Woe wore his full scale armor of grave gold. The metal of the armor itself was of a a burnished, reddish gold color, having earned some marks during the war in Quacia. The cloth that accompanied the armor was darkest black. On his shoulders, as ever, a mantle of gray magpie feathers.
As for its construction, the suit began with a maile coif and half-mask that covered Woe's upper face. The chain portions of the coif had thick, silken under-padding. The mask molded in the likeness of a demon's eyes and horns, with a few other motifs besides. From the coif, a mantle of maile and silken padded cloth covered his neck and shoulders. Polished scale lamellar covers his chest, in a cuirass. From the cuirass, a pair of maile and padded silk sleeves ended in protective vambraces.
A half-skirt of metal scale protected his legs, their scales swept around in Imperial style. A girdle of grave gold protected his midsection. Around the legs, a pair of chain leggings with black silk under-padding. Finally, a pair of sabatons that protected his feet.
He stepped forward from the raised scaffolding platform that had been hastily erected there in the square leading into the gatehouse of the Fortress.
At his belt, a embersteel cat of nine tails was looped into one of it’s rings. While behind his grave-gold targe, he held the coiled wrap of his blacksnake whip.
Woe stood to face the crowd, at which a few cheered, even going so far as to proclaim him as one of Quacia’s heroes, naming him Tristem, the Vahanic equivalent of the name/word Woe or sadness. He was unmoved by their overtures toward him. He was here to enforce the order, and such was his duty.
He strode forth, allowing that the dragoons would part ways for him to enter their midst. The Commander nearly stopped him, but held back at the last, not sure what the mage was planning or thinking.
Woe stood on the cobbles of the square, tracing his foot along their surface to place a series of runic traps. Whispers and murmurs spread throughout the crowd, wondering what it was he was planning, or thinking, or in actual fact doing. He was setting the stage for what would come, once they'd settled the issue of rioting and protests.
Once the runic traps of weakness were set, he strode into the crowd, through the parted gap in the ranks of the dragoons. The people gave him room to breathe as he entered their midst. Their mistake. He would teach them the errors of letting him into their circle. He was not their friend.
Woe stared all along their faces, so hopeful and curious and perhaps a bit fearful of what he would do. With a swift motion of his hand, he drew the cat-of-nine from his belt, and began lashing it all around him. The embersteel beads attached to the tails clacked adn snapped as they mortified the unarmored and unwashed masses. Their pain was intense and widespread as Woe used his technique to cause sympathy pain in each and every one of the beggars.
The cat flew this way and that, indiscriminately attacking bits of flesh, clothing, tearing through linens and wools that clothed the people of Quacia. As he did so, the people began to disperse in a chaotic mess. Woe waited for the dragoons, but soon enough they approached with cudgels and quarterstaves. For some reason the King wished to make a non-lethal demonstration of the dispersal of these crowds. A mistake on his part, or so Woe felt. Yet he would not question the authority.
The dragoons began gathering up those who put up a resistance, stunning them with their clubs even as Woe lashed the populace with his cat. But soon enough the point of lashing the crowds of people became a moot point, as they laid sprawled out, half of them in agony and the rest begging for mercy. Those who had put up the strongest fight, and even landed a few strikes on some of the dragoons were hauled to the Scaffolding, and bound at the wrists, made to kneel before the rest of the crowd.
Woe, unharmed yet unfinished with the business of the day, slid the cat into his belt ring, and uncoiled his leather blacksnake. This, he used to lash at people as they fled, hitting over the shoulder of some dragoons in some cases, and causing untold agony as the people fell before his whip.
Of course none of them were harmed, in body, but many were stricken with and indelible sense of despair. They crawled along the ground, every movement an agony as they reached up, looking at the one they’d taken for one of their heroes. Woe shook his head at them, as he made his way back toward the scaffolding.
There would be punishments doled out today, and Woe would be the executor of them. He turned around as he made his way back to the rear of the Commander, and waited, watching the crowd for anymore signs of resistance. They had been thoroughly cowed and subdued, and were ready for the Commander to announce the punishment due to their most vocal and vociferous dissenting voices.
The Commander spoke, ”These men and women before you stand accused of treason, sedition, disturbing the peace, violent assault against…”
Woe stood in for the Commander, holding out an arm to interrupt him. He strode forward, and addressed the crowd himself, ”Heaps of Quacia! Your peers stand accused of all of these and many articles besides. Yet they also stand in violation of Theocratic Law! Which will you accept on their behalf, The King’s Justice, or Justice of the Theocratum!?”
Perhaps a controversial statement. Perhaps an ignorant statement of a foreigner. Many people cried out that he was a foreign dog, a bastard hired on by a weak king. Yet one note rose above the rest. The people began changing ‘King’ rather than calling for their wounded lord.
The chants rose up above the battlements and across the devastation, soot-covered materials, and broken buildings that lay outside the fortress. They all called for Secular justice, rather than Theocratic. It was an important turning point, perhaps, that the people’s souls had been lost to the Wounded Lord, or perhaps they merely mirrored what Woe was saying, and were insensate with the pain of having endured his punishment.
”Very well! The King’s Justice it is!” Here, Woe began dividing up the people lined up against the scaffolding. There were some who were accused of sedition and treason. This meant mortification, of course, but above all death. The rest would be mortified, and sold into slavery most likely to pay off the debt of their ignominious actions and words.
Woe lifted his hand to the sky, signalling for quiet. Then he took out the cat of nine from his belt, and nodded to several dragoon sergeants that were on hand, to turn their backs to him. Their punishment would be exquisite and terrible.
At the last, before he even managed to get his cat readied to strike at them, he felt a sudden inspiration occur to his mind. The Umbral Arachnid had unveiled a new secret, a new rune. That of Fatigue. It would weaken them against pain, and sap their endurance for the mortification to come. Woe smiled, as the ether danced around the coils of his weapon, ready to inflict pain upon them.
He hoisted the cat over his shoulder, and strike down upon the first of his would-be victims. They all screamed in unison at the punishment of their comrade.
